


Sangria

by vulturewomen



Category: Cow Chop (YouTube RPF), The Creatures (Youtube RPF)
Genre: Alcohol, Depression, James not being able to take care of himself, M/M, POV Second Person, lots of metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 12:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7618465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulturewomen/pseuds/vulturewomen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You acknowledge it once in a while. Examine it like a specimen you’ve never seen, and then you push it to the back of your mind again until the next time you get drunk enough, brave enough, to admit that you’re in love with your best friend.</p><p>You have been for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sangria

**Author's Note:**

  * For [narzisstische](https://archiveofourown.org/users/narzisstische/gifts).



There’s a warmth on the side of your face. It’s almost numbing. It’s a hot summer in Colorado, especially in your getup, in a car packed full of your favourite asshole friends. A delightful blindness, a thrum of energy. Aleks bought a stupid dumb CD from Walmart and forced you to play it on your way home.

You thought he was joking when he picked it up but now he’s singing along to Sangria in the backseat and you know you’ve been caught looking at him through the rear view mirror but you don’t let it stop you.

 

* * *

 

 

A clenching in your chest, unfamiliar and familiar in the same breath. You’ve felt like this before. It’s been a while, or at least a while since you’ve acknowledged it. You try not to, desperately, but your mind wanders. You acknowledge it once in a while. Examine it like a specimen you’ve never seen, and then you push it to the back of your mind again until the next time you get drunk enough, brave enough, to admit that you’re in love with your best friend.

You have been for a while.

It’s a nauseating conclusion to come to, not unlike the first few moments of the morning after your dozen glasses of sangria. You’ve taken up drinking, unsurprisingly. You used to joke about Aleks’ alcoholism. The irony. You used to drink to numb the pain in your back but now you drink to numb the pain in your chest. It’s his fault anyway. It’s his fault that you have to gun a shot of whiskey or rum or vodka or jet fuel before you can sleep soundly. The house is empty. The house has been empty since Aleks left. How long has it been, a year? Two years? Eternity? Sure feels like it. The house gets bigger every morning but the loneliness still somehow finds ways to suffocate you when you lay down to sleep.

The alcohol blurs the edges of your vision so you can’t see the empty spaces he left you with.

You’re not bitter, though. You’re not. He’s happy. You’re happy he’s happy. But watching someone else eat does not cure your hunger. The alcohol bloats you. You’ve put on weight. You know you have. You tell Trevor it’s his fault for bringing all the junk food to work. You tell Aron it’s his fault for always insisting on buying Wendy’s for lunch. You tell yourself it’s Joe’s fault for not noticing the fact that you barely eat it anyway. He’s been your friend the longest, isn’t he supposed to know you inside out? You tell yourself it’s Aleks’ fault for leaving the chasm inside you demanding to be filled. But you won’t look at yourself in the mirror anymore, you won’t look into those eyes staring back at you. They judge. They know who’s fault it is. So do you.

You take a shot of whiskey and burrow into the duvet.

You remember to feed the dog. At least Ein is loyal. Even after all the shit you put her through, she’s still standing by your side. You’re grateful. Without her depending on you, you’re not sure you’d even get out of bed in the morning. The Cow Chop guys wouldn’t miss you. Your friends wouldn’t miss you. They’ve got all they need to live long successful careers and remember you in passing. James? Who’s James? Oh, uh, UberHaxorNova? Yeah, I remember that guy.

Your phone buzzes on the counter. It’s Aleks. You’re late for work. It’s 3pm. You’re 5 hours late for work with 16 missed calls. You’d think they’d stop after the first 4 or 5 but no. You let the phone ring. It rings 4 more times before your phone dies. You walk over to the half empty bottle of your vodka and bring it to your lips. You crave the burn. The punishment. This is your livelihood and you’re abandoning it. The guilt eats away like acid in your stomach.

There’s a knock on your door. It’s an irregular rhythm, a pounding. It matches the pounding in your head. You put the cap on the vodka and roll it under the couch. You can admit to yourself that you have problem but no one else needs to know. You brace yourself and your corneas and peer out of the window, and Aleks’ stupid fucking Camaro is parked out front, engine still running, churning up a lot of smoke. You curse him for global warming, smog and lung cancer in the same breath.

He’s shouting. You can hear him shouting and suddenly you feel like a child. He’s angry at you and you’re a child again, under the kitchen table as your parents yell themselves hoarse. You’re under your bed. There’s no monsters under here, all the monsters are outside that bedroom door. Aleks is shouting and you’re paralysed. But you’re an adult. James, you’re an adult. Go and open the door. Go and open your fucking front door and face him.

You open the door and Aleks’ eyes widen. Dinner plates.

He’s not angry. He’s concerned. He’s worried. His eyes scan your face and he’s staring at you. He’s staring at you and he’s swallowing you and he’s devouring you.

“James? Are you okay? You haven’t been answering your phone and you didn’t come to the house”, he says. He tells you like you don’t know. Like you haven’t been beating yourself up about for it the last few hours. You can barely work up the nerve to answer him.

“Y-yeah”, your voice is hoarse. It hasn’t been used for days. “I’m fine. Just slept in”. He narrows his eyes and your heart jumps. Typical.

“You reek of alcohol. How much have you had to drink?” Here it comes. Judgement. Scorn. What have you got to lose?

You shrug. “Lost count after the first bottle”. His eyebrows raise, if he strained any harder they’d disappear into his hair line.

“Bottle of fucking what, James? Jesus fucking Christ. You were supposed to be at the house at 10 and instead you’re here getting drunk off of your ass? How old are you? Breaking into mommy's liquor cabinet or some shit like you’re 12 years old. What the fuck are you thinking?”, You’ve tuned him out. Everything is moving in slow motion. You’re watching his mouth. His lips are pursed tight as he strips you raw and exposes your skeleton to the whole street.

Your bones are atrophied to no one’s surprise.

He’s screaming at you, spit flying everywhere, and all you can think about is kissing him. Your eyes are watering, filling with tears before you can even take inventory and you’re lunging for his mouth. Your lips brush barely, you couldn’t call it a kiss if your life depended on it, for a few moments at maximum before he’s shoving you off with a squawk.

There’s bile rising up your throat as you try to justify what the fuck just happened. You lost your balance. That’s all it was. You’re still drunk. You can barely think straight. You don’t know what you’re doing. Aleks’ is staring at you. He’s staring at your lips. You’re not drunk. You’re sober and he’s staring at your lips. You lock eyes and you’re sober and Aleks wants to kiss you as much as you want to kiss him. He pushes forward through the threshold of your house and his arms are round your neck and his lips are on yours and he’s devouring you. You bring your arms around his waist and you grip him tight. You don’t want to close your eyes.

You’re suffocating in the best way possible. The chasm is being filled. You show belly. You’re a sitting duck. You’re in the centre of a cross hair. Ready, aim. You trust him. He wants this as much as you do. You trust him not to let you fall. It’s too late. You’re at rock bottom and you’ve dragged him down with you. You trust him. You jump off the cliff together. Hand in hand. You love him. He loves you.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a warmth on the side of your face. It’s almost numbing. It’s a hot summer in Colorado, especially in your bed, with your best friend by your side. A delightful blindness, a thrum of energy. Aleks bought a stupid dumb CD and you got drunk and kissed him and now he's laying next to you in your bed, bathing in the sun slipping through the blinds, and his lips taste like sangria.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to my best friend, Rain, for forcing me to write this for her benefit. Wouldn't have done it without you forcing me against my will. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr at jakobasher in you're into that kinda thing :o)


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